


NO EASY ANSWERS

by GreenWoman



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the questions are harder than the answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NO EASY ANSWERS

**Author's Note:**

> Old West Universe   
> 01/27/08  
> * * *   
> With thanks and apologies to the folks who gave us The Magnificent Seven, and John Frinzi, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission ....

* * * 

.... but there ain't no easy answers  
to these questions  
I have found  
no easy answers....

No Looking Back ~ John Frinzi

* * *

"...'said I didn't need your help."

"Think you do."

"Don't."

"Vin...."

And he couldn't fight as the strong arm pulled him down from the saddle and steadied him when his knees refused to hold. "Dammit," he muttered, but the oath was muffled in the wind-driven snow, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway; Chris never listened to him. The taste of dust suddenly seemed strong in his mouth, and Vin licked his lips, swiping away the bitter memory of Ella's dooryard with the frost on his tongue. He yielded to the man next to him, let Chris half support, half drag him through the drifts to the boards of the front porch, and leaned into him while Chris fumbled with the lock.

When the frozen iron hasp finally gave they fell into the cabin together, but Chris recovered first and swung Vin toward the bed while kicking the door shut behind them. "Dammit," Vin muttered again, struggling to stand on his own and failing miserably. He couldn't feel his feet or hands, and his mind seemed hazy, his vision blurred as if the blizzard still swirled around him. "I can ... I can ... myself," he growled, and Chris answered with a sour chuckle.

"Sure you can." 

And Vin tried to prove it, but his fingers wouldn't work ... did he still *have* fingers, he wondered? Chris was tugging at the ice-stiffened gloves and yes, he did have fingers because they stung fiercely when the wet leather pulled away. Chris worked quickly and ignored Vin's feeble murmurs of protest, stripping away the ice-crusted leather coat and boots, the snow-wet pants and socks, the damp cotton shirt, and finally the long underwear. Vin was wet to the skin, and Chris cursed softly and pushed him back into the bed, then drew up the woven blanket and buffalo skin over him. 

Eyes closed, mind foggy and a little pissed at his own weak helplessness, Vin listened to the sound of boot heels on the floor boards, and the howl of the wind as the door opened and then slammed shut. He drifted, not awake, not asleep, and waited for the boots to return.

* * *

Sharp sounds roused him; wood being pulled from the box and arranged in the firebox, tinder sticks being snapped over a strong thigh, one match and then another being struck, and then footsteps on the floorboards and the rustle of material as Chris tucked an old saddleblanket against the base of the door and hung another from the nails over the room's only window. Iron clanged on iron and water from the bucket kept by the dry sink was poured. More scuffling, and the clatter of tin, and then a strong hand cupped Vin's wet curls and lifted his head.

"Here."

The gruff command made Vin scowl, but then the whisky touched his lips and he forgot to protest as he sipped the liquid fire. Artificial heat tightened his throat, growing out to meet the warmth creeping inward from the wool that covered him.

"More."

Vin complied, sipping until the cup was empty and his body went slack. Chris eased him back down and settled the blanket around him, and Vin lay still, drifting. His face and hands and feet hurt like hell, but the sting was gradually fading; whether because of the drink or the dry warmth surrounding him or both, he couldn't bring himself to care. He opened his eyes.

Chris stood in front of the iron stove, his back to Vin. Naked. The red glow from the open grate limned his body in a rosy halo, draping like red silk over the cabled muscles of his arms and legs, flowing like liquid around the sharp angles of his hips and into the crack of his ass and his inner thighs, silhouetting the heavy shadow between his legs.

The fog left Vin, pierced by a gut-clenching pang of real pain that made the bitter bite of cold seem a sweet, cleansing memory. He moaned softly. Chris turned and Vin could see his cock, pulled up tight in the cold air of the room, nested in the thatch of curling hair that crowned his thighs. His skin was dappled with patches of gooseflesh, and his face and wrists were damp and reddened from the brutal weather they'd both endured. 

"You all right, Vin?" he asked softly. 

Vin couldn't answer ... he could only look, and want, and be silent.

Chris turned back to the stove, dropped something into the small pot on the grate and stirred it with a wooden spoon. A beefy smell infused the room, and Vin's stomach growled. Chris chuckled, and Vin was grateful that the stronger hunger he endured made no sound. Chris dipped the tin cup into the small pot, wrapped it in a cotton rag, added a bit of whiskey, and brought it to the bed. The ropes creaked as he sat down; he held the cup in his left hand, and reached again for Vin's head with his right, drawing it up into the curve of his arm as he put the enameled tin to Vin's lips.

"Just some jerky in hot water, but it'll help." He made sure Vin emptied the cup before setting it on the stool next to the bed. Vin let him guide his head back down to the pillow and, although he knew better, he couldn't stop watching as Chris stood, stretched a bit, and returned to the stove; couldn't take his eyes off the man while he poured broth and whiskey for himself and drank it down; gave up trying to tear his gaze away when Chris set the cup down and crossed the room with a stiff stride that told of weary muscles locking up. Cold gripped him again when the blanket and hide were drawn back and Chris slipped into the bed, and chill skin touched his and forced a small sound from him.

"Sorry," Chris said softly. "You all right?" he asked again. "Vin?"

"Fine," Vin managed. 

"Liar," Chris snorted. "What the hell were you thinking, anyway? You ain't stupid ... you knew this weather was coming."

"My own business."

"Not when I have to go after you."

"You didn't have to do nothin'."

"So, I should let you freeze your ass up on that mountain? Find your bones next spring, and say hey, it was his own business? Hell, your horse is too good to waste ... might as well bring you back down too." His broad, cold hand splayed across the bare skin of Vin's chest beneath the blankets, and Vin's cock moved. "Jeez, Vin, why? Why?" 

Vin swallowed, but it didn't ease the crack in his voice when he finally spoke. "Town was feelin' small."

Chris frowned. "Ain't an answer," he finally said.

"Don't owe you one, any more than you owe me." Bitterness clipped the words, and Vin turned his head away.

"Owe you what?" Chris asked. "An answer? Gotta have a question first, you crazy asshole." He sounded reasonable, and amused, and that really pissed Vin.

"You *like* crazy," he growled. "An' I'm crazy ... I just ain't the kind of crazy you like. So I'll be my own kind of crazy, and if it don't suit you, then fuck you. Her. *You.* Just ... fuck." He was naked in this bed, and cold and a little drunk and more than half out of his head, and he would rather have died on the side of the mountain in the snow than be lying here with Chris naked too and not seeing clear the way things were. He rolled on his side, grunting as his cold-crippled muscles protested, and turned his back to the only man whose back he wanted to have for the rest of his natural life.

The bed ropes creaked again, and Vin felt a rough hand on his shoulder; it gripped him there, hard, and then traveled down the knobby trail of his spine. A calloused thumb explored the cantle of muscle that ribbed above Vin's hip, then slid down until the fingers brushed wiry hair, and warm, veined flesh.

"This a good enough answer for ya?" Chris murmured into the damp curls at the nape of Vin's neck. Vin shuddered and tried to move away, but Chris stayed him with a rough caress. Vin was pulled back until the warm curve of Chris curled around him. Strong square fingers curled around him too, and Vin made a wordless noise that earned him the feel of teeth on his neck.

"Got your back," Chris muttered as his hand and his hips moved against Vin's skin. "We're ridin' together now, you and me." Vin twisted in the cage that Chris made of his arm and his leg and his fingers, and bucked a little as Chris moved forward and pressed him belly down into the cotton ticking of the old mattress. "Got your back, from here on out." And Chris took his back, and Vin let his legs be spread with hardly a struggle, and felt the man climb him and ride him, strong and hard and careful. 

They came together, panting and hot and slick with sweat beneath the old Navajo and the buffalo skin, Vin into the old mattress of the bed that Chris had built, and Chris into the man who'd had his back from the day they met.

A log snapped in the iron stove, and Chris pulled out, and pulled Vin in. 

The wind howled outside, but the cabin stood firm against it. 

~ 30 ~


End file.
